


"Training"

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Sitting, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Lydia Martin, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, self-consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the things we do aren't about the people we do them with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Training"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alexis for the quick beta!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://uswe.tumblr.com/).

They train at Derek’s because he’s got the space, the mats for the puny humans, and no one in the privacy of his apartment will freak out if one of the wolves breaks a bone practicing self-defense. Lydia and Stiles are usually paired off for it. She’d initially assumed it was because they were the breakable humans, but Stiles, as it turns out, has actually taken self defense classes, and can show her things about fighting while not superpowered. Kira sometimes shows her things with weapons, but mostly Lydia trains with Stiles, learning to use her body as another kind of weapon.

A couple weeks ago, she’d even been able to take out one of the remaining bounty hunters on her own, and without screaming. It had felt good. So when the wolves start clearing out, Lydia asks Stiles to stay and train longer.

Derek pads away, and comes back human and with pants on, holding a book. He settles on the couch as Lydia uses her calves around Stiles’ neck to bring him to the ground. She lands kind of hard, too, but she’s been practicing falling for months, so she still has breath to ask, “So how many of your fantasies would I be making come true if I stripped off and sat on your face right now?”

Stiles’ eyes flick lightning-fast to Derek, and he replies, “Five.” It’s fast enough that Lydia’s dead sure he would actually be able to list off the five, and it’s endearing as hell. Almost as endearing as the way his voice goes hoarse.

She needs a distraction, still, and he and Derek need some kind of kickstart. Getting off here and now is practically a public service. She slides her leg out from behind Stiles’ head and stands up. “Take your shirt off. This might get messy.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind. She recognizes the look, having seen far too much of it from strangers and friends alike in the last couple years. She presses her lips together, raises a judgmental eyebrow, and puts her hands on her waistband. “Fuck,” he says, and sits up, peeling off his shirt as he goes, all one fluid motion.

He’s not as ripped as she usually goes for, but Lydia knows that Danny would probably cry if he got to appreciate this up close. Stiles is all smooth planes tapering from broad shoulders, pale skin and a surprisingly dark treasure trail. It doesn’t matter all that much if Lydia is into his body, anyway: Derek obviously is, and Lydia likes his hands, his mouth, his brain. It all works out.

She pulls down her pants and panties together, shimmying a little to get out of them, and Stiles gets hard and dazed-looking flatteringly fast. She doesn’t look at Derek. He hasn’t told her to stop, hasn’t acted outraged, hasn’t kicked one or both of them out. If she looks at him, he might remember that he should. This is not what they usually do - is miles removed from their usual interactions. Which, well, for her and Stiles, their regular groove isn’t a bad thing. She likes it, even, now that he treats her like a person. But this should be fun, and fun is all she wants right now. Stiles might even be one of the few people she knows smart enough to get that.

Lydia’s already a little wet, and it’s not just the light sweat she’d worked up training. She likes control, and having Derek here, watching, is turning her on a lot more than she’d expected.

Stepping out of her pants takes her closer to Stiles, and he puts a hand on her ankle. There’s no pressure there, just curiosity. She smiles at him, and swings her leg so she’s standing astride his head, looking down at him past the sports bra and workout shirt she’s still wearing. “You want to?”

She has no idea what she’ll do if he says no - it’ll be humiliating, and awkward. But she still has to ask. And anyway -

Stiles breathes, “Yeah,” and slides his hand up her calf. She moves her foot closer to his head, and slowly bends her knees. There’s no real way to make this look graceful, and she’s achingly aware of that fact, but Stiles is still looking at her like she’s some kind of sex miracle, so there’s that.

Lydia pauses, hovers a couple inches above his face. Stiles’ breath is hot on her skin, shivery on her labia, and he makes a high-pitched whining noise in his throat. He licks his lips and cranes his neck and Lydia gives him what they both want and lowers herself the last couple inches so his mouth is on her.

It starts off loose and surprised, like when she’d kissed him to get him to stop panicking. But he’s a fast learner, or Malia taught him things, because he slides his tongue up until he finds her clit, and then he stays there. He swirls his tongue around, learning the shape of it, and then sucks, hard.

Lydia feels her knees getting a little shaky, and leans back, putting her hands on Stiles’ chest. She arches her back to keep herself positioned the same way over his mouth, and knows they have to make an appealing picture in profile. And this is doing it for her, the stimulation all concentrated like when she’s taking some utilitarian time with her vibrator, but she doesn’t want to be done quite yet, so she twitches her hips forward.

Stiles, compliant, works his mouth down her until he finds his way to her hole. His tongue slides into her experimentally, and a tremor works its way up her body. Lydia can feel herself getting wetter. Stiles’ face is going to be covered in her.

She rolls her hips and lets her head fall back, half-wishing she’d let her hair down. The braid she’s wearing is practical, yeah, but she knows the flow of her loose hair is sexy. More importantly, it makes her _feel_ sexy. Stiles wouldn’t be able to see her, and he seems perfectly happy, anyway, finally bringing his hands up to support her thighs. His long fingers are almost tentative as he slides them up towards her ass, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch despite his nose bumping up against her clit.

“C’mon, Stiles,” she says impatiently. His fingers tighten convulsively on her. He slides his fingers in farther, and his hands are broad, his fingers long - his palm’s still firmly under the curve of her ass, his thumb on the outside, even as his fingers brush against her perineum, against just the edge of her hole right where his tongue will slide past it.

Her breath comes sharp and deep, and she looks over, finally, at Derek. He looks lost, and his eyes are flicking restlessly over them. He reaches her face and their eyes lock. Stiles takes that moment to move his head, to move _her_ , probably so he can breathe. He’s mouthing at her clit again, fingers still a tease, and she lets out a breathy moan.

Derek swallows hard, and Lydia smiles and closes her eyes. Everything is as expected, and she can turn her attention back to her own pleasure.

“Put your fingers in me,” she says.

Stiles hums his assent - hums tight against her skin. Lydia gasps and digs her nails into his chest. Two of his fingers slide into her - sideways, angle wrong to hit anything good. But they’re so _long_ , and he keeps his nails blessedly short, and she can feel his knuckles as they slide in. A broken noise escapes without her permission, and she clenches down around his fingers.

He slides them out and thrusts back in, and does something unexpectedly coordinated with his tongue at the same time. Helplessly, her hips stutter down, following the sensation. It presses Stiles’ teeth against her in a sharp sensation that’s on the confusing edge of pain and pleasure, and she moves back up and pets his chest, trying to reassure him that she’s not going to do that again, not going to cut off his air and press his head into the floor. Not that he seems bothered. He twists his fingers so they’re facing forward, which has to put his wrist at an awkward angle, but also lets him crook his fingers so he’s nudging her G-spot.

She’s read, she knows, that the body of scientific research is against its existence at all. But it feels amazing, so this is one situation where Lydia does not actually give a flying fuck what the science says. The pads of his fingers are rubbing her just right, winding her up towards an orgasm that’s going to be amazing.

Stiles has moved his focus from her clit, taking little kitten licks around her labia minora, and it’s driving her crazy.

“Let me come,” she demands, and her voice comes out all wobbly. She’s never done this before with an audience just-as-audience, and she’d planned to make this more of a show, but she needs to get off, needs to get off now.

She thinks Stiles must thrust his hips, because his chest moves under her hands, and it makes her position unsteady - more so, since her knees and ankles have gone weak and unsteady with her impending orgasm. But it’s not a problem - the hand that’s not thrusting inside her is clutching her thigh. Lydia knows, intellectually, that Stiles is stronger than he looks: she’s seen him fight, she trains with him every week. That’s a far different kind of knowledge than what’s imparted by feeling his forearm like an iron bar supporting her. It’s disconcertingly hot.

Almost as much as his tongue coming back to her clit, circling it and lapping at it, and he’s sucking lightly, and his fingers are pressing into her just right, and she’s close, so close. She comes, and it’s a bit like flying. Stiles keeps going, and it feels amazing until she’s abruptly done and oversensitive. She straightens her legs slightly - it’s hard, they feel like jelly - and moves off of him enough to sit on the floor instead of on him.

He grins at her, and the lower half of his face is slick and shiny. She grins back, still feeling light as air. She doesn’t look at Derek, yet. Stiles makes no move to touch her, and a lot of her likes that. The smaller part wants to cuddle, but that’s not in the plan right now. She regains her breath and pats his chest where her nails have dug crescent moons into skin almost as pale as hers.

She rolls to her feet and grabs her pants, pulling them on quickly.

“Derek should probably help you with that,” she says, looking down at the bulge in his pants. If she weren’t already keeping Jordan waiting, she might do it herself, wind Derek up a little more. She’d have fun, she thinks. But when she glances at Derek now he looks wrecked, his expression almost a match for Stiles’, and Stiles will thank her later when he and Derek have had some horrible talk about feelings. “Won’t you help him out, Derek?”

Derek makes a strangled noise in his throat, and he’s not even looking at her now, his eyes locked on Stiles’ face. He’s got claws sunk in the James Patterson book he’d been reading. Which is all to the good - who even reads Patterson when there’s any other option? She’s saving Derek from bad literature as well as dying alone.

“You should probably kiss him, too. He’s got a really talented mouth.” Stiles flops one hand out towards Derek and lets out a high-pitched whine. Lydia puts some serious effort into walking a straight line to pick up her bag and walk to the door. She slips on her shoes as behind her she hears the sound of Derek’s will to self-denial crumbling, which also sounds a lot like making out.

She glances back before she goes out the door, and they make a pretty picture.

Jordan’s waiting in the parking lot, since they’re supposed to do more research tonight.

Lydia opens the back door of his car and drops in her bag, ducks down to say, “Sorry I’m late, Stiles and I went a little longer than usual in training.”

“It’s fine,” he says, smiling at her.

When she slips in the passenger seat and closes the door, she can spot the exact moment he smells her - smells the sex on her. His pupils dilate, his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and he swallows with an audible click. She smiles back at him. She might be seventeen still, and he might be a cop, but there’s no law against teasing him to the point of insanity.

 


End file.
